


No title (for sherlockbbc_fic)

by omphale23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock/John established.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock is not big on displays of affection, public or otherwise (I'm talking hugging, hand-holding, that kind of thing. Not sex). John is fine with this, but someone convinces Sherlock that he needs to try and show more affection.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cue Sherlock trying to be more affectionate, both in private and public. And John doesn't mind at all but at he same time is like "... are you suffering from a brain injury or something?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bonus points for Sherlock discovering he actually enjoys it.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No title (for sherlockbbc_fic)

John had never been that big on hand-holding himself. It seemed--rude, somehow, like he was pushing his happiness onto other people. It made him uneasy.

So Sherlock's gloves and his disdain for affection in public were fine, the whole thing wasn't a problem as far as John was concerned. In public, they carried on as normal.

It was only inside the flat that anything had changed. And, outside of the sex--which was fantastic, don't misunderstand, John had absolutely no complaints in that department, because Sherlock was both inventive and focused and a bloody _genius_ , which was technically three things but John frequently lost the ability to count when Sherlock decided to take him apart at the seams--outside of the sex, Sherlock didn't seem to need the sort of touch that John could offer. Would offer.

Some nights, Sherlock bent himself into the sofa and left a space for John. A few times, he even stretched out again, waiting until John was comfortable before unwinding and laying his head in John's lap. They rested like that, talking quietly or watching the television, until John realized that hours had passed and he needed to sleep.

Sherlock usually stayed downstairs, eyes almost closed in the flicker of the screen, thinking about--whatever Sherlock thought about. John left him to it.

A few times, John had woken early to Sherlock wrapped around him, hands curled into fists and pressed over John's sternum, breath hot and slow and rumbling in his ear. When he did, he lay carefully in place, relaxed and unwilling to disturb the rare feeling of it. Eventually, Sherlock would inhale sharply, tense, and slide carefully away. They both pretended John had been asleep the entire time. At least, John pretended. He'd no idea what Sherlock told himself.

It was obvious, though, that whatever touching they did was entirely for John's benefit. Neither of them admitted it, but the truth was there, nonetheless.

And it worked, it was all ordinary and as normal as they got, until the day that John caught Sherlock climbing angrily out of one of his brother's lurking black sedans and it all went a bit sideways.

It was a week before John noticed the difference. He'd been distracted; flu season and a particularly troublesome stretch of home invasions had kept them both awake far longer than was healthy. At the end of it, though, Sherlock followed John up to bed and settled in beside him, tense and unmoving. A moment later, Sherlock's hand reached out and settled along John's hip, the backs of his fingers barely grazing the skin as John held his breath.

John didn't ask. Neither of them slept well, and in the morning Sherlock was gone. He didn't come home for three days, and whatever questions John might have asked-- _what was that? Is something wrong? Do you have some sort of traumatic brain injury and didn't tell me?_ \--had disappeared twelve hours earlier, when neither Mycroft nor Lestrade had the faintest idea where Sherlock had vanished to.

Instead, he carried on making a cup of tea, ignoring the skittish way that Sherlock paced the flat. He poured the water, as Sherlock's circles narrowed and he finally stopped just inside the archway. Added sugar, and Sherlock stepped closer, haltingly, until he was pressed against John's back with his head tucked over John's shoulder. They both watched the tea steep.

Sherlock backed away when it was done, retreated to the sofa where he sprawled dramatically, practically daring John to push for more.

John sat in his usual chair and sipped his tea.

That night, he went to bed alone. But in the morning, the pillow next to him was still warm when the alarm went off, and there was a hot cup of tea waiting for him on the table. John wondered briefly if the tea had been poisoned by whatever alien robot had replaced his flatmate, but after a few seconds he shrugged and drank it anyway.

It was the snogging at a crime scene that finally brought things to a head.

John had been--not content, exactly, more like wary--happy enough to put up with Sherlock's strangeness in private. But when he pointed out that the victim's medical alert status had been woven into an intricate tattoo, and therefore the traces of almond extract in the wound weren't as coincidental as Anderson argued, Sherlock froze for a moment, and then grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of the room.

He could still hear Lestrade protesting as they rounded a corner and stumbled into a newel post. Sherlock pressed him up against the banister, and before John had a chance to protest, he was being thoroughly snogged.

It was hot as hell, but deeply, deeply disturbing. John surrendered for a minute--all right, three, maybe four--but eventually managed to push Sherlock back, until they were on opposite sides of the narrow stairwell, panting at each other.

John ran through a dozen possible questions, from _no, seriously, is this a head injury?_ to _oh fuck do that again, please_ but finally settled on, "What the hell, Sherlock? This is worse than giggling."

Sherlock shook his head and glared at a constable who'd started to wander past but quickly retreated without a word. John waited, well aware that the one thing he could outdo Sherlock on was sheer bloody-minded patience.

"I--Mycroft said--you were--damn it. He said I should be more--nice. To you." Sherlock waved his arm in what was clearly meant to be a _the ways of you tedious humans baffle me_ gesture. John was beginning to understand the feeling. "He said it took practice, that I was being cruel."

John nodded slowly as if he understood. He didn't. "Cruel. To--wait, to me?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Right, yes, of course to me. Let's not get into how Mycroft got the information he used to decide that. Why in the world did you _listen_ to him?"

Sherlock shrugged. He was obviously done with emotions for the immediate future. John sighed, and stepped across the hall, stopping bare inches from Sherlock, who had clenched his hands at his sides and was staring fixedly at the wallpaper, waiting for John to come to a conclusion.

John finally reached up, pushed a hand into Sherlock's hair, and tilted his head down until their eyes met. "Mycroft's best friend is an umbrella. And you never listen to him about anything else, so don't--just don't. We're good, you're not being--I'm happy, okay? I want you, that's it. That's enough."

Sherlock relaxed, fractionally. He still looked like he wanted to bolt, but John was pretty sure he wouldn't actually throw himself down the stairs before finishing the case. They walked back into the apartment where Lestrade waited, and John contented himself with standing a few feet away while Sherlock called everyone else idiots and managed to get them both banned from crime scenes for a month.

That night, John collapsed into his chair with a sigh and was halfway asleep when he felt Sherlock settle into the floor against his legs. He startled, offered a quiet, "You don't have to" that faded off when Sherlock leaned harder, wrapped his hand around John's ankle.

Sherlock's response was almost too quiet to catch, but to John it sounded an awful lot like, "But I want to." John fell asleep there, uncertain but content.


End file.
